respect for your lofty station?”
“No,” he said, and she might have actually seen a genuine tinge of regret cross his all-too-masculine face. “I only wonder, is it so different where you come from? Are the ladies not conscious of their state of undress? Are sensibilities a relic of the past?”
She sighed and shoved a hank of hair from her forehead. “It’s just not really a big deal. I mean, women do run around wearing a whole lot less than I am.” She fluffed out the sides of her nightgown to illustrate that Mrs. Knightsbridge could fit in this garment with her if she wanted to. “The way you saw me dressed earlier, when I first got here? That’s a lot more like women dress where I’m from. As long as you’ve got the chest and the bum covered, people don’t so much care about anything else.”
“The sight of a woman’s stockinged ankle as she enters a carriage is enough to make a callow boy salivate. To think that men are so jaded elsewhere…” He shook his head incredulously.
“It’s not just a geography thing. From my calculations, it’s been about two hundred years since ankles were a big deal.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I’m sorry.”
His throat worked for a moment before he spoke again. “Miss Marten, it is I who should apologize. You are a guest in my home, and I have behaved abominably. I should not have expected you to be familiar with the courtesies of my time. Can you extend your forgiveness to me?”
He took her hand, and his palm was hot in hers. She looked up at him and could find nothing more than sincerity written in his features. His appeal was undeniable, despite the high-handed way he’d treated her. Without thinking, she stepped closer to him, wanting to be nearer to the person she saw in those eyes. She tilted her chin up to him, and her tongue darted out to wet her lips.
Mike’s eyes grew darker, and his nostrils flared slightly. He hadn’t let go of her hand. A shadow lined his jaw now, the whisper of a beard appearing. A tingle started in her belly, one she hadn’t felt in quite a while. It streamed into her through his contact on her hand, swirling through her blood, heating it as it flowed through her body. The delicate lace of his neck-cloth contrasted so much with his purely male features that it was hard to look away. He was so gorgeous. She took advantage of their continued physical contact and leaned closer to him. Her gaze traveled back up to his face, and she let herself drown in his eyes. Drawn as if magnetized, she reached up on her toes to be nearer.
I want him to kiss me. Mike, or Micah, or his lordship the earl, or whatever he was called. Somewhere deep underneath that bossy exterior was a person that she wanted to get to know much, much better.
A heartbeat passed, then two. He was still standing there, still staring at her, still holding her hand gently. But he didn’t bend down to kiss her. His strong jaw was tight; his eyes were intense, almost anguished. The realization that he had no intention of doing so doused her like a bucket of icy liquid. The delicious tingle in her belly died a quick, cold death.
“Sorry,” she whispered. Backing away from him slowly, she watched as he gave a sharp bow and left the room. She followed, turning the opposite direction and carrying the tattered shards of her pride with her.
She headed up the stairs as quickly as she could. Halfway to the second floor, she caught up to Mrs. Knightsbridge, who held a tray full of delicious smelling food. When the housekeeper reached the landing, she turned to see who was following her.
“Oh dear! Whatever are you doing about in a night rail? Oh, come with me, back to your room. Ladies do not wander about in their nightclothes, you must realize.”
“I’m beginning to get the picture,” Jamie said wryly as she followed the housekeeper back into the Lemon Room.
Mrs. K set the tray down on the table and gestured to the chair. Jamie sank down into it with a sigh,
Learning to Kill: Stories